


Off the Beaten Path

by kaebee



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hitchhiking, I still dont know what to tag for lmk, M/M, Roadtrip au (kind of), Unsafe Sex, what naughty boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaebee/pseuds/kaebee
Summary: A red pickup with a cover over the bed, dingy with dust, rolls past him and slows to a halt on the shoulder of the road. Hanzo approaches the passenger side door, the window sliding down as he does. The driver is a scruffy man, skin tawny and sun-kissed. “Howdy,” he says, leaning over closer to the window. His voice is thick with his accent, gravelly in a way that rasps against Hanzo’s ears and raises goosebumps on his arms. “Where you headed, partner?”





	Off the Beaten Path

Hanzo has decided he despises America. It’s too big, too empty. The ancient 1990 car he’d stolen had finally broken down three miles behind him, stranding him on a flat dusty highway that stretches endlessly in both directions. He isn’t going to make it back to civilization before dark at this rate, and he’s ill-prepared to handle the drop in temperature of a desert night. Does every goddamn thing in America have to be all-or-nothing, leaping from one extreme to the next?

 _I want to see America someday. You should come with me, I think you would like it too._ A ghost of a memory. Hanzo grimaces in response, trying to silence the voice in his head, but it only laughs at his futile efforts as usual.

The roar of a car vibrates under his feet, a welcome interruption from getting lost in his own head, and for the fourth time that day he extends his arm and sticks out his thumb, expecting to watch for the fourth time as the vehicle’s rear bumper disappears past him.

It doesn’t. A red pickup with a cover over the bed, dingy with dust, rolls past him and slows to a halt on the shoulder of the road. Hanzo approaches the passenger side door, the window sliding down as he does. The driver is a scruffy man, skin tawny and sun-kissed. “Howdy,” he says, leaning over closer to the window. His voice is thick with his accent, gravelly in a way that rasps against Hanzo’s ears and raises goosebumps on his arms. “Where you headed, partner?”

“As far west as you will take me,” Hanzo replies. The driver nods, removing a Stetson from the passenger seat to make room while Hanzo pulls open the door and heaves himself into the truck. The hat winds up on the stranger’s head, tilted back to keep the brim out of his vision. Pickup truck, Stetson hat, “partner.” An honest-to-God American cowboy. Hanzo has no idea what to make of that.

The driver waits for him to deposit his rucksack behind his seat and settle in before sticking out his right hand. “Most folks just call me McCree.”

“Shimada Hanzo,” he says, then amends, Americanizes, “Hanzo Shimada.” He takes the proffered hand and shakes it, short but firm. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Sure thing, Shimada Hanzo Hanzo Shimada.” McCree grins, crooked and toothy, not even the least bit fazed by the way Hanzo glares at him.

He kicks his truck back into gear and turns the brunt of his attention back to driving, away from Hanzo, affording Hanzo a chance to study him better. His flannel shirt stretches to fit over broad shoulders and a barrel chest, rolled sleeves exposing one thick, hairy forearm and a thinner, smoother one. A prosthetic. Hanzo diverts his gaze to watch the scrubby flat landscape roll by and avoid gawking.

“Headed pretty far west myself, to LA. How far you going?” he asks, glance darting toward Hanzo, his finger tapping on the steering wheel in time with the Johnny Cash thrumming from the stereos.

Hanzo clasps his hands together to still his fingers, nerves fluttering. Of course he had to get picked up by someone chatty. “I am going to San Jose.”

“Oh yeah? Well, all right, California here we come.” McCree chuckles, a low rumble like the distant roll of thunder. “So what’s in San Jose?”

He frowns, deliberating. Even out here, in a foreign land with a random stranger who’s simply giving him a lift, he can’t be too careful, paranoia pricking at the back of his neck and setting his teeth on edge. “A job,” he finally answers, words chosen carefully, then deflects with, “And what about for you?”

McCree hums thoughtfully and says, “Well, I’m looking for someone, so to speak.” And _that_ , Hanzo thinks, is an even more enigmatic response than his had been. McCree fishes a cigarette from a crumpled pack on the console, lights it, and smokes contentedly with his elbow hanging out the rolled-down window. “So how’d you end up in the middle of nowhere like that, anyhow?”

“My car broke down.” Drying sweat itches between his shoulder blades and under his arms, irritating now that his body has a chance to catch up with the exertion of walking a good four or five kilometers under the relentless Texas sun. He probably smells – and looks – awful, but McCree is polite enough not to say anything. He just taps ash out the window and says, “Why not call a tow truck?”

Because he doesn’t have car insurance. Because the car is stolen. Because he’s too damn restless and dogged to sit around and wait when the car means nothing to him anyway. None of Hanzo’s many valid reasons are innocuous enough. “That piece of shit car was not worth the hassle,” he says instead, and that draws a rough smoky laugh from the cowboy.

On foot, Hanzo hadn’t thought he’d make it to the next town before dark, but in McCree’s truck they make good speed and reach the next exit ramp in half an hour. “Gotta stop for gas,” McCree says when he takes the exit, though Hanzo hadn’t asked after an explanation. He pulls into the first gas station on the side of the road and fishes a wrinkled five dollar bill from his pocket for Hanzo. “Mind grabbing us some coffee?”

“Black?” McCree nods, and Hanzo departs. The convenience store is identical to every other Hanzo has seen, stepping through the doors is like entering a washed-out realm of unnerving déjà vu and the nauseating aroma of untrustworthy food. Coffee is really the only substance he would stomach from a place such as this.

First things first. He goes to the bathroom and peels off his shirt, dampening paper towels in the sink and doing what he can to scrub the worst of his filth off. Not for the first time since this whole venture, he thinks of long, luxurious baths back home. Now he would kill for just thirty minutes in a clean shower. Hanzo sighs, undoes and recaptures his topknot, uses a last paper towel to wipe away smudged eyeliner – one indulgence he can still afford to carry. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to maintain as much of his imposing dignity as he could, even if he is reduced to hitchhiking. He puts his shirt back on, for now, and exits the bathroom a solid fifteen minutes after he went in.

Hanzo fills two Styrofoam cups with coffee. He mixes three packs of sugar into one, pays, and carries them back out to the truck. McCree is leaning against the truck bed, whistling, legs crossed one over the other. Hanzo isn’t surprised to discover he wears cowboy boots complete with spurs, though he can’t for the life of him imagine why a man without a horse would need spurs. He beams when Hanzo approaches. “Thank you kindly, partner.” He claims his cup greedily and takes a long drink. “Y’know, I wasn’t really gonna stop for the night for a while. If you want to stay here, find somewhere to get some sleep…”

Hanzo shakes his head. “I would rather not depend on catching another ride.” Who knew how long it would take for a second kind stranger to come along the way McCree had? Besides, he’d lost valuable distance because of the day’s unforeseen circumstances, and he’s itching to make up for as much as he can. He has no time to waste. “However, I am concerned such long periods will affect your ability to drive. Would you like me to drive for a while?”

The proposition is met with a momentary silence, McCree mulling it over as he pushes away from the truck and arches his back, stretching. Hanzo actually hears one of his knees pop. “Guess if you’re up for it, I’d sure appreciate a little break.” So they switch places, Hanzo climbing in behind the wheel and adjusting the seat to reach the pedals – _how are his legs this fucking long_ – while McCree leans into the passenger seat.

Hanzo retrieves his rucksack to dig out a new shirt, the last clean one he has, and sheds the old one. He doesn’t need to look to his side to know McCree is watching, suddenly quiet and still next to him as he tugs the V-neck tee over his head and straightens it around his torso. The change of clothes already makes him feel better.

He suppresses a smirk, self-satisfied, when McCree clears his throat and busies himself with his coffee. McCree invites him to help himself to a paper sack full of food if he gets hungry and then tilts the brim of his hat over his eyes. His quiet snoring keeps Hanzo company for the next two and a half hours of driving. The landscape doesn’t change much, if anything becoming flatter and more barren the further he sinks into the depths of Texas. Out here, there is so much more sky than there is land.

McCree awakens gracelessly, snorting and yawning and scratching the back of his head. Dusk is settling around them, turning the world red and orange. “Mornin’,” he drawls. Hanzo glances to the side as McCree practically dives into the backseat, producing a guitar from behind the driver seat. It’s modified for his right hand to play the chords, the pick in his left.

“Is that difficult?” Hanzo asks, unabashed.

His forwardness catches McCree by surprise, eyes widening a fraction, but in a heartbeat his smoky, deep laugh rolls out of his chest. “Not anymore.” He strums the guitar and fiddles with the pegs. “Took a while to get used to. It’s heavy, can’t move individual fingers all that well. But it ain’t so bad.” McCree’s gaze slides away from Hanzo to watch out the windshield. He starts strumming out a song Hanzo doesn’t recognize, something slow and soft. “Had it about fifteen years now, can’t hardly remember living without it.”

“What happened?” He knows it’s none of his business, knows it’s probably rude to ask, but McCree seems as frank in handling questions as Hanzo is in asking them.

The tune swells, a steady climb that expands and fills the small cab of the truck. McCree’s voice adds a deep baritone when he speaks. “It’s not much of a story. Was running with a pretty rough crowd and just got stupid.” Hanzo arches his eyebrows at “rough crowd.”

They let the conversation lapse into silence, McCree plucking at the guitar for a while longer until he puts it away to break into his stash of food, mostly cheap junk, but Hanzo is hungry enough to munch on some roasted peanuts, beef jerky, and candy. McCree loans him a pair of sunglasses as the setting sun blazes directly ahead of them, huge and searing. “Everything’s big in Texas,” McCree chortles when Hanzo complains about it.

After another hour they switch again; Hanzo dozes in the passenger seat, exhausted in spite of the caffeine and sugar, and wakes up again to find McCree pulling off the road. He rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. “What are you doing?” he asks, words scraping against his throat as he tries to work his way out of his grogginess. Outside, the headlights are the only source of light.

“’S late. Gotta rest for a while.” He glances at Hanzo. “You still look plumb tuckered out, partner, you ain’t taking the wheel again.”

Hanzo scowls, just as annoyed that McCree had known what he was thinking as he is that they are stopping. McCree clambers out of the truck, and with his knees aching from inactivity, Hanzo does the same. He takes a proffered cigarette, and they lean against the side of the truck while their eyes adjust to the dark. “You’re welcome to sleep in the cab if you want a little privacy,” McCree says.

“That is certainly trusting of you,” Hanzo muses, smoke dancing in the warm light.

McCree snorts. “No offense, but I know you have no idea where the hell you are or where you’d go. Ain’t got much in there that’s worth stealing, anyway.”

“I could strangle you in your sleep for the car keys.” Hanzo shrugs, casual. McCree just laughs and pats him on the shoulder.

Stubbing out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, he climbs into the covered truck bed, and Hanzo follows him. He’s not sure he’d be able to get comfortable in the littered cab. A thin foam mattress is wedged into the truck bed, blankets and a single thin pillow piled to one side. He climbs in on his hands and knees, the top too low to sit up very well. Hanzo lays on his back and stares up at the black canvas a couple feet above his head.

“How long have you been on the road?” Hanzo asks, “A long time?”

McCree sighs, a heavy, weary sound, rattling from deep in his soul. “Don’t rightly remember, days sort of blend together a little. Couple months, I reckon.” He glances over at Hanzo. “How could you tell?”

“Just a guess. You seem quite… accustomed, to living this way.” Hanzo rolls onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and smiles ruefully. “I have been traveling for over a year now. It does not get much easier.”

He chuckles and pushes a hand through his hair. “Well, shit. Thanks for the warning.” McCree wanders into a tale from early on in his travel, when he’d blown a tire in South Dakota in the middle of corn fields.

It is just the two of them, alone in the wilderness, no other human soul for miles. Taking shelter together in the back of a pickup. Hanzo watches his face animate as he talks, listens to his voice rumble through the air. He can take a chance; it won’t matter in the morning. He bends forward and interrupts McCree, halfway through getting lost in the corn because he thought he’d seen a farmhouse, by pressing his mouth firmly against McCree’s.

McCree is still for a split second, then his lips open and let Hanzo’s tongue in. Hanzo doesn’t linger long, just enough to taste him before pulling away. McCree’s knuckles brush against Hanzo’s cheek, little more than a tickle. His amber eyes are warm and soft, no expectations, no judgement. He understands.

Hanzo curls his fingers in the collar of McCree’s shirt, kissing him languid and deep. His chest nearly bursts when McCree touches him, hands reaching low for Hanzo’s hips and sliding up. Hanzo doesn’t want to remember just how long it’s been since anyone touched him, and the warmth, the tenderness, is enough to light up his nerves. Lust bubbles thick and molten in his belly.

“Uh,” McCree mutters, breathless, staring him, “It’s been a while, I don’t… got anything for this. Like, condom-wise.”

Hanzo purses his lips, considering. “Do you at least have lubricant?”

“Yeah, yeah.” McCree squirms until Hanzo lets him get out from under him. “Hang on, I’ll get it.” He disappears outside.

Left with nothing to distract him, the alarms in his head shriek louder than before. Logic, common sense, paranoia, all ringing at once; he shouldn’t do this. He should stop himself before it’s too late. But this is fleeting, he can and will eventually leave, slipping away before he’s tempted to offer more than he has to give. He unbuttons his tight jeans and palms himself, stifling a moan, impatient for his hand to finally, finally, be replaced by someone else’s body.

 _Self-destructive_ , his mind supplies. In the arms of a man like McCree is, at least, one of the most pleasant means of destruction Hanzo can imagine.

McCree hurries back, a small bottle in hand. “Well, if that ain’t the prettiest sight,” he breathes, pausing to watch Hanzo drag his hand over the growing bulge beneath his boxer briefs.

“Looking is all you will get to do if you do not get in here,” Hanzo grumbles.

Chuckling, McCree closes the back and takes his place close to Hanzo’s side, sliding his hand over Hanzo’s. Hanzo closes his eyes and lets him take over for the moment, savoring it. He can feel McCree’s gaze on him, watching for a reaction as he works his hand around Hanzo’s underwear and tightens his grip. Hanzo sucks in a breath. McCree’s fingers are already slick.

McCree murmurs deep and gravelly encouragement in his ear, picking up his pace. Hanzo arches his back, tension jumping in his thighs and abdomen. “Wait, enough,” he hisses, and McCree stops instantly. Hanzo fights to regain his breathing, working himself away from the end that had nearly come far too quickly. He rubs his hand over his mouth, then turns his attention up to McCree. “Roll over.”

He begins to wonder if McCree is going to comply, given how long he studies Hanzo, but just as he’s about to backpedal McCree wriggles backward to make space and rolls onto his back to shuck off his jeans and boxers. Propping himself up on one elbow, Hanzo dances his fingers over McCree’s hip and around his middle to take him in hand. McCree’s breath hitches as Hanzo gives him a couple experimental tugs. It’s too dry to feel particularly good, but he’s desperate for anything. Hanzo smirks.

“The lube.” McCree passes it to him, and Hanzo withdraws the hand on him to squeeze out a sizable amount. “Move your leg.” He shifts his weight obediently, spreading his legs and putting most of his weight on his hip. Hanzo grabs a handful of one meaty buttock and swallows as he kneads it a second. The man’s ass is a gift from God.

Two fingers slide in easily. “I thought it had been a while,” he snorts.

McCree grunts. “A man learns to improvise.” Hanzo chuckles against his shoulder, dragging his fingers mostly out and back in again, molding McCree around him. McCree hisses when Hanzo scissors his fingers, stretching them as far as they’ll go. “Ah, Hanzo, shit. Come on.”

“Because you begged.” Hanzo pulls back, sitting up higher on his elbow, and grabs McCree’s leg, lifting it a little to give himself a better angle. McCree is still wearing socks. Something about the casualness of it tugs at Hanzo’s ribs. He turns his attention away to move his hips forward and press into McCree, deliberate and steady. McCree releases a ragged little moan. Hanzo kisses the back of his neck. “Relax.”

He does, breathing deep and adjusting to the intrusion before Hanzo starts to move again. He starts slow, a purposeful rhythm that warms and tightens the depths of his gut, but it isn’t enough. McCree paws at Hanzo’s hip, scrabbling for leverage. “Here,” he mutters, and he pushes McCree flat onto his stomach.

Hanzo positions himself above him, and McCree lifts his ass like it’s an instinct. He can’t sit up much, even with McCree lying mostly flat, but he stoops close, folding over McCree’s back. The hair curling at the back of McCree’s neck flutters whenever Hanzo exhales. “There we go,” McCree grunts, and he rocks his hips back shallowly to make a point.

Now Hanzo can thrust deep and hard, McCree gasping and writhing in time. He arches; every noise that rumbles out of his throat spurs Hanzo on further. His flesh hand slides below his stomach to ease his own aching. “I’m so close,” he rasps.

“Do it then.” Hanzo scrapes his teeth across the dip of his spine. Craving the proof that he is with another human being, alive and needy, like him. Hissing, McCree tenses and shudders under him. Hanzo presses his forehead between McCree’s shoulder blades, where sweat pools and sticks to Hanzo’s skin, as McCree relaxes again.

Hanzo pulls out and away, dropping onto his back and reaching down to finish himself off. McCree’s hand gets there first, big fingers and firm grip nearly as good as being inside him. Hanzo bites his lower lip as McCree meets his gaze, staring down at him with a steady softness that Hanzo can’t handle; he closes his eyes against it, but he can still feel it, warmth tingling over his skin like the man’s eyes are sunbeams in the spring. McCree drags him over the edge quickly.

Their heaving lungs are the only sound for a moment, then McCree shuffles to grab one of his blankets and tugs it over their legs. He kisses Hanzo’s damp forehead. Hanzo lets him tangle them together. There’s nothing to say, anyway. He sighs and drifts off to McCree’s chest hair against his cheek and the rhythm of his breathing.

In the morning, they keep up their streak of silence out what had happened, dressing while McCree muses about where they might be able to pick up coffee and “rustle up some grub.” McCree drives, and Hanzo consults the crumpled road map he found in the glove box. They made it into Arizona sometime last night, and according to McCree they can make it to Los Angeles easily. He doesn’t point out Hanzo will have to find a new way to get up the coast.

For the first few hours, they entertain each other sporadically; McCree teaches him several road trip games and tells him stories that are definitely too outrageous to be true. Hanzo tries his hand at the guitar, only picking out simple chords per McCree’s instructions, but finds he enjoys the feel of strings against his fingers again. How long it has been.

McCree falls silent mid-tale as the “Welcome to California” sign flies past. The truck slows, almost imperceptibly, before he finds solid footing on the gas again and they rev on. “Listen, uh.” He coughs. “Got a confession to make, partner.” He glances sideways at Hanzo, watching him steadily, and turns back to the road. ”It’s you I’m looking for.”

“What?” Hanzo reels. _I’m looking for someone, so to speak._ Cold dread punctures a hole in the bottom of his stomach. The truck propels forward faster. Too fast to risk jumping out.

McCree swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “One Hanzo Shimada has a pretty damn big bounty on his pretty head. Going to San Jose for a hit job, right?”

Fuck. Hanzo’s knuckles ache with the pressure he uses to cling to the passenger door handle. His gun is in his rucksack, in the back seat. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks, buying time.

“Well…” McCree scratches the back of his neck. “You ain’t much like the other guys I usually get sent after. Sorta taken a liking to you, thought I’d give you a…” he gestures his hand loosely in the air, “A fighting chance, I guess.”

“To do what?” Hanzo snorts. “Change? Turn my life around?” He leans closer. “Is that why you let me fuck you, to convince yourself you could make me a good person? Like _you_?” He spits the last word like venom.

McCree flinches. “Hey, now.” He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, visibly tries to recollect himself. “That… that had nothing to do with this. That was just…”

“Just because you are always on the road and will take whatever you can get. Because the loneliness eats away at you. I am familiar.” Hanzo sneers. “What a difference it makes, to forego the life of a killer.” McCree stares straight ahead, jaw clamped tight, and doesn’t answer. “Let me out.”

The waver of resolution Hanzo had seen in McCree’s face dissipates when he issues the command. He shakes his head. Still no words.

Hanzo curses, frustration and panic swirling through his mind. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the sting of betrayal deep in his chest. He doesn’t know what weapons McCree might have on him or tucked out of sight. Anyway, at the speed they’re travelling, killing or incapacitating McCree will definitely result in a crash fatal for Hanzo as well.

He has no choice but wait for an opportunity.

It comes soon, and not how he anticipated. McCree takes the next exit off the highway, into a small but clean little town with palm trees lining the streets in true Californian fashion. He glances at McCree, who wears the same stony, resolute face as he had for the past thirty minutes of driving. They slow down to 40 with the speed limit; Hanzo contemplates the safety of jumping out.

He doesn’t have to. McCree stops at a gas station, thumbing down the lock button to keep Hanzo inside. “Okay, sweet pea.” Hanzo frowns at the pet name. “I’m giving you 24 hours.”

“You’re letting me go? Why?” Hanzo can’t help himself.

McCree’s face splits into a grin, lazy and wicked, and Hanzo hates how thrilling it is. “The way I see it, I wouldn’t have caught you if your car hadn’t broken down, and that’s just mighty unfair. Sorta takes the thrill out of the chase. Ain’t no fun.” Hanzo stares at him, bewildered. “Not letting you go, mind you. Just giving you a little head start to even things out a little.” He winks. “I’ll be seeing you again real soon, Hanzo. I promise.”

Hanzo grabs his bag from the back and slips out of the truck. He sets across the lot to the street, where a sidewalk winds along until the exit to the highway. When he hits the sidewalk, he looks back; McCree stands next to the truck as it sucks in gas. He’s staring right at Hanzo, and he tips his hat. Hanzo turns away again and sticks out his thumb. He bites the inside of his cheek to repress a smirk in spite of himself, exhilaration fluttering up from his stomach into his throat.

Let the chase begin.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this, gave up on it, then came back and finished it for a friend's bday months back. I'm tired of having it in my drafts so I'm just going to throw it in here.....  
> Thanks for reading!! I'm on [tumblr](https://geckosncats.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/geckosnack)!


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